


When the Dragon Breaks

by KatonRyu



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, F/F, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatonRyu/pseuds/KatonRyu
Summary: After the Thalmor invade Skyrim and succeed in killing the Dragonborn's family, he only has one thing on his mind: avenging them. But of course, he wouldn't be the Dragonborn if he didn't do so in the most over the top way possible — by going back in time and changing history. But perhaps his trip through time will end up changing far more than he bargained for...





	1. Prologue — Return

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I’ve been intending to start on for the longest time. It is very much an experimental kind of thing, which is fully intended to have no real ending. Honestly, I’ve always been kind of jealous of fanfics which go on and on, and yet manage to stay interesting throughout. So, I came up with a story that allows for a lot of tangents while still very definitely having a plot. The first five chapters, four of which I’m uploading at once, are setup, and then things will settle into a rhythm and the main plot of the game will basically take a back seat to a lot of faffing about, and advancing my own plot. One important thing to note here: In Skyrim, plate armor is about as useful as wet tissues. You can basically impale a guy in full Daedric gear onto an iron dagger if you whack them enough times with it. It’s also common to see people clad in plate armor wielding shields, something that rarely ever happened in history because, y’know, plate armor sort of has the whole ‘defense’ thing covered. Shields and full plate were a tournament thing, not a warfare thing. This fanfic, however, will cheerfully ignore that. Realism is going to take a backseat to the rule of cool, as one might expect in a story featuring time travel, dragons, and loads of magic. Well, that about concludes the setup. Please let me know what you think, and enjoy!

**When the Dragon Breaks**

The flames crackled in the night. It wasn’t the first burning house he’d ever seen. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched his _own_ house burning down. The first time, though, he’d been young, too young to truly grasp just what it meant that the building he called his home was creaking and groaning as the flames ate away at it. And that first time, his family had been there watching with him, instead of being inside the burning building like they were now.

There was nothing he could do. Even his Voice would not be strong enough to douse this fire in time to save the ones he held dear. The expression on his face was calm, but his body language radiated anger every bit as powerful as the flames before him.

He knew that he wasn’t alone anymore. His enemies were behind him. Of course they were. They wouldn’t just set the fire and then leave. They’d stay, lurking in the shadows, hidden by their magic and lying in wait until he would finally enter their trap.

“Lay down your weapons and come quietly,” the lead elf, clad in a long black coat with golden accents, said imperiously.

The man who had lost everything he cared about turned around, his face still impassive. He looked at the elf, saw that behind the arrogant façade there was fear.

The man drew his sword. Lightning arced around the finely honed blade, wrought from the bones of a dragon. The elf opened his hands and flames danced within them. The other elves, wearing armor rather than robes, drew their swords and readied spells of their own.

The man reached within himself and felt the unnatural power that lay there alongside his own magic. He kept looking at the lead elf as he tapped into it. Space folded around him, and he slit the throat of the lead elf immediately after he materialized behind him. He looked to his side, at one of the other elves who was now preparing a lightning bolt. The man took a deep breath and Shouted.

“WULD!”

He was launched forward at a speed almost too great for the eye to follow and the elf never got a chance to launch his magic, as the dragonbone sword pierced his heart. As the elf sank to the ground, the man looked at a group of the remaining elves. They were close together. It proved to be a fatal mistake as the man once again took a deep breath.

Images of the fire burning bright behind him shot through his mind’s eyes as he bellowed more ancient Words.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

A blast of fire hotter than any forge shot forward and engulfed the elves. Those in front died immediately. Those a bit further back cried out in pain before the heat overcame them. Even now, the man’s face was impassive. Only three elves were still alive. The man strode toward them and the elves gripped their weapons tighter, put all of their faith into the gleaming moonstone swords.

The man stopped, mere steps away from the elves. He held his sword at his side and looked at them, ever expressionless. He could see the beads of sweat on the elves’ brows. He could see their breathing becoming uneven.

Then, one of the elves yelled and charged at the man. The man waited, motionless. The elf swung his sword in a wide arc towards him. It was a decent swing, but to the man’s eyes the elf might as well have been standing still.

Unnaturally fast, he stepped aside and swung his sword. The elf’s head hit the ground before the rest of him did. The final two elves attacked at once, and the man raised his bloodstained sword to meet them. He stopped the strike of the elf on the right and, from his left hand, unleashed a bolt of lightning into the other elf with a deep, resounding thunderclap.

Now alone with the last survivor, he gripped his sword with both hands and deflected the elf’s overhead strike to the side. The momentum carried the helpless elf further forward, right into the upward counter swing of the man. Yet another elf head arced through the air as the body collapsed in a fountain of blood.

With an aggressive swing of his sword, the man cleared the blood away from it and sheathed his weapon. Still wearing his faceless mask, he walked away into the night.

* * *

_“Time was…shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did…” _

These were the words that were circling around in the man’s head, like mosquitoes on a warm summer night in Bravil.

_“Time was shattered…”_

The words held meaning, that much was clear, but what good could they do him now? The Time-Wound had accorded him a vision of a time long past, a vision that had helped him defeat Alduin and finally fulfill the prophecy the ancient Akaviri had made.

_“There are those who are destined for everything, and for nothing at all…” _

More words from the past, these ones from his old mentor, who had been of great age even during the Oblivion Crisis.

_“Your fate is connected to the Scrolls, I’m sure of it…”_

The Scrolls…the Elder Scrolls, older than the Ehlnofey, if some scholars were to be believed. Enigmatic to Aedra and Daedra alike. Why? Why were these fragmented memories at the forefront of his mind?

_“Time was shattered…” _

_“…destined for everything and for nothing at all…” _

_“…connected to the Scrolls…”_

Quicker and quicker the whirling memories came. They blocked out all other thoughts. The Stormcloaks, the Thalmor, the Empire, none of it mattered. Only those words, those infernal words with their hidden meanings, their unseen significance. And then, like a bolt of lightning, it struck. The words fell silent. At long last, a crack in the expressionless man’s face. The tiniest, faintest hint of a smile.

* * *

The sky was clear. Northern lights danced in the sky high above the peak of the Monahven, the Throat of the World.

“Drem yol lok. It has been long since you came here for tinvaak,” the deep voice of the ancient dragon said. Perched on the Word Wall, he looked at the man standing before him.

“I didn’t come here just to talk,” the man said.

“Zu’u mindok. I know. You mean to turn to the Tiid-Ahraan once again, do you not?” the dragon answered.

“Will it work?” the man asked.

“Perhaps. Los vomindok. It is unknown. As far as I know, no one has ever attempted this before. Pogaas paar. You have much ambition to undertake something so perilous.”

The man smiled ruefully. “I don’t have a choice. I made too many mistakes. I meddled in things I knew nothing about and it has cost me everything. If there is even the slightest chance to set things right, I will take it.”

“Alduin fen daal, Alduin will return if you go through with this,” the dragon warned.

The man nodded grimly. “I know. But I know I can defeat him again. I just ask that you trust in me once again.”

“Zu’u fen. I will. I wish you faraan, fortune, in your quest.”

“Thank you. I hope I will see you soon, my friend. Lok, thu’um,” the man said, inclining his head.

“Lok, thu’um,” the dragon replied.

The man stood in the ripple of magic, where the Elder Scroll had once cast Alduin through time. He pulled a scroll from the pack on his back and pulled it open. As soon as he saw the dancing runes and swirling patterns of the scroll, he knew what to do.

“ZEIM TIID LAAS!”

The Shout hit the scroll, and a blinding light swallowed the man. His skin tingled, burned with ice and froze in flames. The sky was buried and the earth flew away. The inside was green, the outside was a wave. The current pulled, whirled, pushed. All sounds were deafened, all but the roar. The white gave way to black, and everything faded.

* * *

**Chapter One: Return**

The sound of slow hoof beats filled Tyr’s ears. He felt the faint warmth of the sun, and noted that it did not hurt him. His hands were bound, and he could feel that his magicka was being suppressed by the bonds. Slowly, he opened his eyes. In front of him was a blond man wearing padded chainmail armor, colored blue. A rush of adrenaline shot through him as the realization of just where he was dawned on him.

“It worked…” he whispered.

“Hey you,” the blond man said when he realized Tyr was looking at him. “Finally awake? You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us.”

Tyr grinned widely as he thought back to the first time he’d been here, something that must have confused the man sitting across from him. “

Are you all right? I don’t think this is a situation to be smiling in,” he said.

Tyr shook his head. “It’s nothing. I probably shouldn’t have gotten blackout drunk before trying to get into Skyrim is all,” he said.

It wasn’t a total lie. The first time he’d been here, he had indeed been massively hungover from several bottles of mead the night before. This time, though, he felt nothing of the hangover’s effects, presumably because of his trip through time.

“Ah, so that was what the commotion in the Imperial camp was about last night,” the man, Ralof, who in another life had been a friend of Tyr’s, said.

Tyr smiled fondly as he remembered the first time he’d crossed the border into Skyrim. His original, sober, intention had been to camp in the mountains, and then head into Skyrim at dawn. Instead, he’d gulped down his entire traveling supply of mead, and in a drunken stupor had decided that the dead of night was as good a time as any to enter a war-torn province. He’d soon heard the sounds of a fight, and he’d immediately drawn his sword and stumbled in. He vaguely remembered smashing an Imperial soldier in the face, whereupon the soldiers had somehow gotten it into their minds that he was dangerous and fighting for the Stormcloaks.

He turned his attention back to the present and tried to make himself comfortable, or as close to it as he could get while bound in a prisoner’s cart.

“Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell,” another man, whom Tyr vaguely recognized as a horse thief, said.

The man looked at Tyr. “You and me - we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Tyr replied. “They caught us, and now they’re going to try and execute us.”

“I don’t think they’ll have much trouble with it,” Ralof remarked dryly.

Tyr grinned at him. “I think you’ll find they bit off a bit more than they can chew with us.”

He grew serious again and looked at the thief, remembering how the man was shot by archers the first time around. “Whatever you do, don’t try to escape. I know it sounds strange, but trust me.”

The thief sighed, but said nothing.

“I mean it,” Tyr pressed. He wondered why he cared so much what the fate of this one man he’d known for all of five minutes before his death would be. “Don’t try to run. They’ll shoot you. Stay put, and stay close to me, and you’ll live.”

“Shut up back there!” the carriage driver yelled, before the thief could reply. Slowly, the caravan of prisoner transports rolled down the road to Helgen.

Tyr thought back to the first time he’d been in this carriage. Back then, his head had been filled with mostly sarcastic remarks, none of which he’d actually voiced. Even the first time, he hadn’t really feared that he was going to die. There was more in store for him than an ignoble death at the hands of some bored headsman. It just wouldn’t do for the Sword of Thunder, one of Cyrodiil’s most feared mercenaries, to die like that.

Now, of course, he knew exactly what would happen. Alduin would interrupt the executions, Tyr would be freed, and from that point onward he had begun on a path of mostly stupid, often alcohol-fueled decisions which had culminated in his trip through time.

This time would be different. This time, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes he made back then. He knew so much more about his own destiny and the meaning of fate this time around, that the idea he would fail again was simply preposterous.

Tyr looked up when he felt that carriage stop. He saw the tower upon which Alduin would soon be perched, burning down all of Helgen just to get to him. It was kind of flattering that someone, even a megalomaniacal dragon, would level an entire village just to try and kill him.

When he hopped out of the cart, he looked at the horse thief again. “Remember: don’t run.”

The thief nodded almost imperceptibly, and Tyr gave him a slow, satisfied nod. Perhaps he was using this man as a test. If he could save this inconsequential thief, then surely he’d be able to save everyone else as well, when the time came.

An Imperial soldier began calling names. “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

With a glance at Tyr, the shaking thief stepped forward. The soldier gestured with his quill to a group of Stormcloaks, and Lokir slowly made his way over there. His body language made it clear that he regretted not running away, but Tyr had difficulty suppressing a grin. Last time, Lokir had been shot at this point. He’d already changed something.

“What are you grinning at, prisoner?! Step forward!” the Imperial captain ordered.

Tyr shot her a contemptuous smile, but he obeyed. It wouldn’t be long before Alduin would show up, anyway.

“Name?” the soldier with the checklist asked.

Tyr stood up straighter. “I am Tyr, the Sword of Thunder,” he said.

The soldier sighed. “Full name,” he said flatly.

Tyr rolled his eyes. Why were Imperial soldiers always so dull? He faintly recalled that this same exchange had happened last time as well.

“Tyr Thunder-Sword,” he said.

The soldier gave Tyr an amused smirk. “Your nickname is just a play on your actual name?”

Tyr shrugged. “It sounds awesome and you know it,” he said.

The soldier went down the list with his quill, then turned to his captain. “Captain, his name isn’t on the list.”

“Forget the list. He goes to the block,” the captain said.

“…By your orders, captain,” the soldier said slowly.

He shot Tyr an apologetic look, and Tyr slightly inclined his head. Without looking at the captain, he joined the other prisoners.

Then, right on cue, he heard it. From the mountains he could hear an echoing roar. Around him, people looked around in confusion.

“What was that?” the soldier with the checklist asked.

“It was nothing. Carry on,” General Tullius ordered.

Tyr looked at the general. He knew the man’s reputation well. A war hero from the Great War, a tactical genius, and a confidante of the Emperor himself. That he, of all people, had been sent to quell the rebellion in Skyrim had been a clue to everyone just how important the Emperor thought it was to keep the province in the Empire.

He recalled the man’s dire words after Tyr and the Stormcloaks had sacked Solitude, his warning about the Thalmor. He’d been right. Tyr shot a glance at the bound and gagged Ulfric Stormcloak. Maybe he could be made to see reason. Tullius might not be able to do it, but Tyr and Ulfric had been friends in the other timeline. If anyone could convince Ulfric, it would be Tyr; he was sure of it.

“Next, the Nord in the rags!” the Imperial Captain commanded.

“The least you could do is call me by my name, you know,” Tyr said indignantly as he walked to the block.

Again, he heard Alduin’s roar from the mountains. To his great satisfaction, it sounded much closer this time.

“There it is again. Did you hear that?” the Imperial soldier said.

“Hadvar! Be quiet,” the captain ordered.

Hadvar nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“You should really learn to listen to your soldiers, you know,” Tyr said casually as he assumed his place in front of the chopping block.

“Shut up, prisoner. You have bigger things to worry about,” the captain said.

From the corner of his eye, Tyr saw a black shadow flying through the air. He turned to face the captain. “So have you,” he said softly.

With a loud thump, Alduin landed on top of the watchtower.

“LOK BAH YOL!” he bellowed.

Almost instantly, the sky turned into a swirling vortex of red and gray. Meteors began crashing all around Tyr and the other prisoners. The Imperial captain in front of him was staring incredulously at the dragon, and Tyr didn’t hesitate. He pushed her back with his shoulder and turned to face the other prisoners.

“Don’t just stand there, go! Into the tower!”

Without waiting for the Stormcloaks and Lokir to respond, Tyr dashed into the tower opposite the one Alduin was perched on. Once inside, he gave Ulfric, Ralof, and, to his great satisfaction, Lokir, a moment to catch up.

“Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Ralof asked.

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Ulfric said grimly. “We need to move now!”

“Ulfric’s right,” Tyr said. “This is no time to be standing around. Up the stairs, come on!”

Tyr began to ascend the stairs, not even slowing down when he heard Alduin blasting the wall out. He was just in time to see the World-Eater pulling his head back out of the flaming hole he’d created. He turned back to the people behind him.

“We can jump through that hole into the house below. If we stick to the walls downstairs, we might make it to the keep and out of Helgen from there,” he said.

Both Ralof and Ulfric nodded once, and even Lokir made a small movement with his head that Tyr took as approval. Without saying another word, he looked through the opening in the wall and jumped.

Once in the house downstairs, he didn’t hang around waiting for the others. He knew that Alduin was hunting him specifically, so every second he lingered was one too many. He ran through the burning streets, weaved past Imperial archers and mages as they shot everything they had at Alduin’s impervious scales.

He played with the idea of throwing a Dragonrend out, but he decided against it. This wasn’t the time or place to fight Alduin. At long last, he arrived at the keep, just in time to see Ralof and Hadvar exchanging words. He remembered how he’d gone with Ralof before, how angry he’d been at the Empire for trying to kill him, but now he mostly thought about Hadvar, and how much the Empire would need soldiers like him in the time to come. And so, instead of following Ralof, Ulfric and Lokir, Tyr set off after Hadvar into the keep.

* * *

“What the…Tyr? Not escaping with the other Stormcloaks?” he asked.

Tyr shook his head. “They’ve got Ulfric with them. They’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, could use some help.”

Hadvar cocked his head and looked pointedly at the bonds around Tyr’s wrists.

“Doesn’t make it less true,” Tyr said with a shrug.

“I guess not. Come here, I’ll take care of those ropes. You should be able to find some armor and weapons here as well,” Hadvar said.

Tyr held out his hands, and Hadvar cut the ropes with his dagger. Almost immediately, Tyr felt his magicka flowing freely again and he filled both of his hands with balls of lightning to test his control.

“You’re a mage?” Hadvar asked in surprise. “With your build, I’d figure you as a warrior.”

Tyr shrugged and dispersed the lightning. “I’m everything,” he said.

He began to root around in one of the chests, looking for some armor.

“Especially modest…” he heard Hadvar mutter.

“Why would I want to be _modest_?” Tyr asked in mock horror as he held up a cuirass that seemed to be his size. “Modest people don’t get into fights nearly as much as they should,” he went on, pulling out boots and bracers from the chest as well. “Plus, it’s not exactly bragging when you have the skills to back it up.”

A few minutes later, Tyr was wearing a full set of heavy Imperial armor. He gave his new sword a couple of swings and raised his shield at different angles to get a better feel for it. The armor wasn’t completely his size, and it was bulkier than the steel plate he was used to, but for the time being it would work just fine.

“Alright, I’m ready. Let’s get going,” he told Hadvar.

Before Hadvar had a chance to reply, though, he heard voices approaching. Hadvar peered into the hallway and his expression darkened.

“Stormcloaks. Maybe we can reason with them.”

Tyr could hear that Hadvar didn’t exactly believe his own words, but he was surprised to hear him even suggest a non-violent approach. Last time, Ralof had been more than willing to utterly annihilate any Imperials they came across, and he hadn’t exactly felt much remorse either. When the Stormcloaks spotted Tyr and Hadvar, they instantly drew their weapons and advanced.

“Hold on, now. We don’t want to fight,” Hadvar said.

“Save it, Imperial scum,” one of the Stormcloaks replied. He raised his battleax.

“If you want to die, so be it,” Hadvar said glumly.

He raised his sword…and then lowered it again in astonishment. Tyr had dashed in, unnaturally fast, and plunged his sword straight through the padded mail the Stormcloak was wearing. With an angry roar, he pulled back the blade, watching coldly as the Stormcloak crumpled to the floor. The other Stormcloak swung his war ax, but Tyr effortlessly raised his shield to deflect the blow, then swung his sword in a wide arc, cleanly separating the Stormcloak’s head from his body.

He wiped his blade on the stained tunic of the fallen Stormcloaks and sheathed it again.

“How did you…he wore armor…” Hadvar said incredulously.

Tyr shrugged. “With enough strength, anything is possible. Now come on, we have to get out of here.”

* * *

Together, Tyr and Hadvar fought their way through the keep. Tyr was surprised by Hadvar’s continuing reluctance at fighting the Stormcloaks, and even more so at his disgust that the Legion employed a torturer.

Last time, he’d basically assumed that all legionnaires stationed in Skyrim were utterly murderous bastards. He didn’t really mind utterly murderous bastards, being that his chosen profession was murdering lots of people for money, but it surprised him that apparently, even here in Skyrim there were some decent people in the Legion. All the Stormcloaks they came across in the keep, however, were clearly a bunch of utterly murderous bastards, and Tyr relished the combat even though he knew that these men weren’t his enemies. His only enemies this time around were the Thalmor.

Tyr made a mental promise to kill ten Thalmor for every Stormcloak he killed now…and he would kill a thousand Thalmor each for the deaths of Lucia and Sofie. This time would be different. The girls would live. The Dominion would fall. Tyr, the Sword of Thunder, would make his mark on history yet.


	2. How Quaint

“What do we have here? A little dark elf picking flowers?”

Lilith didn’t bother to respond to the mocking tone of what she presumed was yet another bandit. This province seemed rife with them, even more so than her home province of Cyrodiil. They also seemed a good deal dumber than their Cyrodiilic counterparts.

“You’d better show our boss some respect, girly,” another bandit warned.

Lilith daintily picked the red mountain flower and put it into a satchel filled with other various flowers before turning around to see what the fuss was about _this_ time. She saw six Nord men, all clad in scaled and fur armor which seemed to be far too cold for the harsh climate of Skyrim. They had Lilith, her two flame atronachs, and her undead, partially decayed wolf surrounded. Each carried a different, unpleasant looking weapon.

“Finally decided to pay us the proper respect, then?” the biggest of the men said.

Lilith laughed. “Respect?” she said incredulously. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that I, Lilith of House Helbain, staunch ally of the Great House Telvanni, owe some common cutthroats any form of deference, do you?”

When the bandits didn’t respond, she sighed. “You’re serious? Oh dear, how quaint. In any case, I’d like to reach Riverwood before dark so if you would be so kind to move along now.”

The leader of the bandits took a step forward. “We’re not going anywhere, girly, not until you hand over all your gold to us.”

He looked her up and down.

“But if you don’t have coin, we know some other ways you could pay us…”

Lilith scoffed. This was exactly why she preferred the company of the dead over the living. Undead thralls, at least, refrained from making lewd comments at every occasion. Although she supposed the incessant groaning could be construed as overly sexual. Perhaps with some more research, she could fine-tune the spell so that her thralls would remain respectfully quiet. After all, she was only reanimating and enslaving their dead bodies. It wasn’t like she soul-trapped every single person she killed. Hardly enough reason to start moaning and groaning, anyway.

Evidently, the bandits didn’t take kindly to the dreamy look Lilith always got when she was thinking about her spells, because their leader angrily ordered his goons to attack her. Lilith’s two flame atronachs responded marvelously, each one launching a fireball at two bandits simultaneously, while her undead wolf snarled and leapt at the fifth man. This left only the leader to attack Lilith, and he angrily swung his executioner’s hook at her.

Lilith sidestepped the obviously telegraphed attack and focused some magicka at the tip of her finger. The bandit followed through on his swing, turned around, and menacingly stared at Lilith, whose right index finger now sparked with electricity. She pointed at the bandit’s forehead, and a narrow blast of lightning shot from her fingertip.

The bandit crumpled to the ground with a smoking hole right in the center of his forehead. His five comrades had by this point been felled by her familiars and Lilith gave a slow, satisfied nod. Even her undead wolf had survived its fight. Her necromancy was improving rapidly. A living wolf would never have been able to kill a bandit on its own, but as always, dead things were just better.

Lilith looked at the corpses of the bandits. They all looked like they were in good physical shape. They would make very nice bodyguards for the duration of her trip to Winterhold. Perhaps their presence would dissuade others from disturbing her. She stood over the body of the fallen bandit leader and called up her magicka, swirling it around in both of her hands, then fired it into the bandit. Slowly, the body levitated up and returned to its feet. When the eyes opened, they glowed an eerie, cool blue.

To Lilith’s dismay she saw one of the bandits arms decay into bone and sinew. And she’d been so careful, too. But one mangled arm was a small price to pay for invoking command over life and death. With more research, she was bound to discover a variation of the thrall spell that _didn’t_ decay the body at an accelerated rate. After all, she’d already managed to prevent the bodies from falling apart into dust. Perhaps if she focused most of the spell in the brain, and controlled the body from there…maybe that would lessen the strain on the rest of the corpse. She looked at the five bodies that were still on the ground and smiled. There was research to be done.

* * *

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from bringing your…companions…into town with you,” a yellow-clad guard said. The man was shooting apprehensive looks at Lilith’s undead entourage.

“I assure you, they’re perfectly under my control. I realize we Dunmer aren’t known for our fondness of necromancy, but as a wizard of House Helbain I promise you that none of my thralls will cause any damage to your citizens,” Lilith said.

Really, people worried about the strangest of things. In neither Cyrodiil nor Skyrim she’d met people who were afraid of bandits marching into town, but completely tame undead thralls and summoned Daedra were ‘too dangerous’.

“Be that as it may, ma’am, I’m still going to have to ask you to leave them here. The people are already uneasy because of that alleged dragon sighting. The last thing they need is an undead army walking into town.”

Lilith cocked her head. Dragon? Was that what she had seen flying overhead on her way here? If so, that would be very intriguing. As far as she knew, dragons hadn’t been seen in Tamriel for…

“Ma’am? Your thralls?” the guard pressed.

Lilith made a frustrated noise at having her thoughts interrupted, then snapped her finger and let go of her active magicka flows. Immediately, the six bandits and her wolf fell to the ground, and her two flame atronachs were sent back to Oblivion.

Technically, the finger snap was entirely unnecessary, but she had found that other people were more comfortable if it appeared she needed to perform a physical action to dispel her magic. She found that illogical trait delightfully quaint.

“There. Any further issues?” she asked.

The guard shot an expressionless look at the corpses now littering the path into town, then glanced at Lilith. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“It’s…yeah, okay. Move along,” he said in a resigned tone.

Leaving the guard to clean up the bodies, Lilith walked into the small settlement of Riverwood. It was the first actual town she came across in this province. Originally, she would have passed Helgen first, but shortly after crossing the border she’d gotten sidetracked and she had ended up completely missing the fortress town. It was a bit of a shame, since she’d heard that Helgen was worth visiting, but she supposed she could always go there on her way back to Cyrodiil.

For the time being, she’d purchase some supplies here in Riverwood and then head out to Whiterun. According to her travel guide, Whiterun offered carriage services to the other main cities of Skyrim, and she’d be able to get transport to Winterhold from there.

She really hoped that the College would turn out to be worth the trip. Everyone she’d spoken to back in the Imperial City had said something different. The researchers of the Arcane University had nothing positive to say about the College, but many less biased mages said it had information on a wide variety of topics, not all of which were easily available in the Arcane University.

The deciding factor for Lilith had been the fact that the College wasn’t against necromancy on principle. She hoped that this unexpected tolerance would translate directly into a large collection of books on the subject.

But it would be some time yet before she would reach Winterhold. Skyrim was a very large province, and even getting to Whiterun from Riverwood was probably going to take her a day of travel. Perhaps more, if she got sidetracked — and she got sidetracked a lot. Not that it mattered much. She was still young, barely a hundred years old, so she had plenty of time to explore every nook and cranny of this province. Surely she’d reach Winterhold within the next decade or so. Maybe.

She glanced up at the sky. It was already getting dark, so presumably the stores would be closing soon, if they hadn’t already. She decided to find an inn first. It would be nice to sleep in an actual bed for a change.

As she walked down the main street, she observed the villagers of the small logging settlement. The blacksmith was instructing his daughter in working the forge, and two men, one Nord and one Bosmer, were having an argument in the street. She saw a lot of people carrying woodcutter’s axes or basket full of firewood, which she supposed made sense for a logging town.

She turned her attention to the buildings themselves. The thatched roofs and small windows gave the town a very warm, rustic appearance despite the general coldness of Skyrim’s climate. The abundance of wood and straw in the construction of the buildings was probably part of the reason why the guard had been reluctant to let her two flame atronachs in, but that still wasn’t a very good reason to force her to dismiss her thralls. Then again, with how many bandits Skyrim seemed to count it probably wouldn’t be long before she had replenished her servants.

Lilith had never really understood why everyone, even an enlightened race like the Dunmer, had such a problem with necromancy. The undead made for excellent helpers. They could be used to study the impact of various spells on the human body, they never complained, and they could be patched up and raised as many times as desired, provided the mage had good casting technique. Sure, it _was_ admittedly a bit difficult to test alchemical creations on beings without a circulatory system, but that was nothing that some careful magic couldn’t simulate when bandits weren’t available for testing.

But apparently, necromancy was ‘a crime against nature’, or whatever phrase happened to be popular at the time. She found that notion utterly ridiculous. If necromancy was against nature, then how was conjuring an atronach or skeleton different? You were still binding some creature to your will, in the end. It just so happened that in the case of necromancy, the creature you were binding to your will looked a lot like a formerly living person. But no matter how many times Lilith had tried to explain that the soul of the person was entirely safe in whatever afterlife they might have believed in, people had always given her strange looks whenever she talked about raising the dead.

Because of people’s irrational reactions, she’d never actually told anyone what her ultimate goal was in studying necromancy. She wanted to find a way to truly reverse death. It would be the grandest achievement that anyone, man or mer, had ever reached, and it would allow her to increase her knowledge about anatomy by leaps and bounds. She could actually interrogate people who had died on their experiences, and she could even kill them repeatedly in different ways to see if various methods of dying were perceived differently by the subject.

She knew it could be done. There were more than enough writings about Daedric Princes killing and then reviving mortals for their own amusement. It stood to reason, therefore, that a sufficiently accomplished necromancer would be able to do the same. Thus far, sadly, the available knowledge had fallen woefully short of such a lofty goal. Hopefully the College of Winterhold would prove to be a more lucrative venture.

Lilith stopped her fantasies of greatness when she noticed she’d arrived at Riverwood’s inn, the Sleeping Giant. She stepped inside and blinked a couple of times to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Welcome to the Sleeping Giant Inn, traveler. What can I get you?” a Breton woman, presumably the owner, asked.

“Greetings. I would like to rent a room for the night. I’d also like something to eat,” Lilith replied.

The woman nodded. “Sure thing. You can take the room on the left there. Orgnar will set you up with some food. You can either pay right away or tomorrow morning, but so help me if you try to get away without paying.”

Lilith wondered if threatening customers was a standard thing in Skyrim culture. She supposed it would have to be, otherwise they would simply tell patrons to pay up front, like in Cyrodiil. She considered finding out what would happen if she didn’t pay, but ultimately she decided against it. Spending time in jail was dreadfully boring, after all. She thanked the owner, then walked up to the counter.

“Greetings. What kind of food do you have?” she asked.

The Nord behind the counter, Orgnar, pretended to think. “Let’s see. I’ve got meat, meat, and meat for food, and mead, mead, and mead for drink. Take your pick.”

“Ah, wordplay. How quaint,” Lilith said with the barest hint of a smile. “I suppose it’ll do, though. How much is it?”

* * *

The next morning, Lilith headed over to the trader she’d spotted on her walk through town. As soon as she entered, she saw a woman arguing with the man behind the counter. She wondered if this was a customer who felt cheated, but she soon realized that it was about something altogether different. Apparently, something valuable had been stolen from the shop, and the woman was dead set on getting it back.

Before the argument could escalate, however, the man spotted Lilith. “I don’t know what you heard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open for business. Feel free to shop,” he said.

“I’m looking for supplies. My backpack was damaged on the way here, as was my cloak. I can repair them with magic, of course, but it’s a bit colder here than I thought it would be.”

The man nodded. “Of course. Travelers often underestimate the weather here. I have a selection of backpacks and cloaks on the shelves near the back there; I’m sure you’ll be able to find what you need.” He gestured at one of the shelves, and Lilith headed over to examine the wares.

Meanwhile, the man and woman started up their argument again. “Camilla, you’re not going to the barrow. It’s filled with Draugr at the best of times, and now these bandits have set up camp there as well. It’s too dangerous.”

Barrow? Draugr? Lilith immediately lost all her attention for the backpacks and cloaks. She’d read a lot about the Draugr of Skyrim, how they were thousands of years old and still defended their tombs, and how they kept returning to life even if some adventurer killed them. If she could just…study a couple of them, she might be able to discover new necromantic secrets.

She stood up so abruptly that the owner of the store nearly jumped over his counter. “Excuse me, I heard you mention a…barrow?” she said.

The man nodded slowly. “Yes, some thieves broke in here and stole a golden ornament, shaped like a dragon claw. They took it to the barrow outside of town, as far as I’ve been able to tell.”

“What if I offered to get the claw back for you?” Lilith asked.

Bandits were no threat to her, she was sure, and the chance to investigate a barrow wasn’t one she was about to pass up. And if she could get some kind of reward out of it, well, that would just be a nice bonus.

“You would do that? That’s fantastic! But the barrow is a dangerous place even aside from the bandits, are you sure you want to take that risk?” the man asked.

“Of course.” Lilith smiled warmly, relishing her lucky break. “I’d love to help.”


	3. Witch-Hammer

The path was steep, but Malleus was undeterred. If bandits had set up camp here, then they had to be dealt with. It wouldn’t do for a paladin like him to ignore such vile cowards after they’d been pointed out to him. And these bandits had even had the audacity to break into the shop of an upstanding citizen. For such a transgression, the only punishment was a swift death, and Malleus’s ebony warhammer would deliver that.

Malleus could feel the biting cold through his padded armor, but he wasn’t worried about getting frostbite. It was nothing his prodigious skills with Restoration magic couldn’t repair, and he regularly thanked the Eight for all the gifts they had bestowed upon him.

A sudden roar stopped him in his tracks. From behind a nearby pine tree, a frost troll came lumbering towards him. Behind his winged great helm, he scowled. Frost trolls were vermin, absolute abominations who were the death of many an unwary traveler. Even experienced adventurers often fell prey to them.

He drew his warhammer and calmly waited for the troll to take a swing at him. A troll’s strength was more than enough to break the arms of any man trying to block their strikes, but Malleus was no normal man. He was blessed by the gods, and no troll could ever hope to hurt him. He held his warhammer at both ends and effortlessly stopped the troll’s arm.

He smashed the pointed end of his warhammer’s shaft into the troll’s face, and it stepped back with a roar of pain. Malleus’s attack had put out the troll’s third eye, and blood streamed freely down its face, but even through all the blood Malleus could see that the eye was already starting to regenerate.

He raised his hammer and brought down the business end of it onto the troll’s skull. He heard the dense bone crack, and the troll sank to its knees, stunned by the powerful blow. Before it could begin to regenerate from this as well, Malleus quickly swung his hammer in a wide, horizontal arc, straight into the troll’s face. Once again, he could hear the crack as the heavy ebony hammer crushed the troll’s skull, and the force of the swing sent the troll falling over backwards and rolling down the slope before falling off the cliff.

Malleus strode over to the edge and looked down. The troll’s limbs were jutting out in awkward angles, and it didn’t appear to be moving. When the troll still hadn’t moved twenty seconds later, Malleus decided that it was probably dead and he resumed his trek up the mountain path.

Up ahead, he saw a tower, at the top of which patrolled what he presumed was one of the bandits he was hunting. Other, lesser men would probably take out a bow or, gods forbid, crossbow by this point and start peppering the bandits with arrows, but that wasn’t Malleus’s style. The only true way of delivering divine retribution to these villains was by way of warhammer.

There was absolutely no honor to be found in killing a man without offering them a chance to fight back. After all, what if the gods had other plans for them? A paladin must always be aware that the wills of the gods were often unfathomable to mortals, and by offering each and every man he attempted to kill an actual fighting chance, he could be sure that he didn’t accidentally kill another chosen soul.

And so, he marched straight up to the tower, warhammer in his hands. Soon enough, the bandit at the top of the tower had spotted him, and he shouted something to two of his comrades at the foot of the tower. All three bandits then drew their bows and took aim at Malleus.

But Malleus was protected by the gods, as well as by strong plate armor and a quickly, expertly cast Ebonyflesh spell. The arrows might as well have been blunt sticks as they bounced harmlessly off the armor and magic surrounding Malleus’s body.

When he got closer, the two bandits at the foot of the tower drew their close combat weapons, one bearing a sword and the other a mace. They stood side by side, and Malleus swung his warhammer with righteous fury.

Both men crumpled like straw puppets when the heavy ebony crushed their ribcages. Even the left man, who was hit mainly by the body of his comrade, died instantly. Pathetic that these weaklings thought they could get away with terrorizing innocent people.

Malleus marched into the tower, up the wooden stairs, and emerged on the top of the tower, where he was confronted by the bandit who had initially spotted him. The Bosmer held two daggers, and Malleus could see the fear in his eyes.

“Are you the leader?” he demanded.

“W-who wants to know?” the bandit asked.

He tried to hide his fear, which Malleus found commendable. Facing one’s death with dignity was a virtue, after all, and was to be recognized as such even in a lawless criminal.

“I am Malleus Maleficarum, Paladin of the Eight Divines, and I seek the bandit who has taken the Golden Claw from Lucan Valerius,” Malleus said.

“I don’t have it. Arvel has it, back there in the barrow.” He gestured with his head. “Now, I’ve told you what you want to know. You’ll just…let me go free now, right?” He looked hopefully at Malleus.

Malleus responded by caving his skull in with his hammer.

* * *

With a familiar crunch, Malleus smashed the bones of the final bandit on the steps of the barrow. He was surprised at how many of them there were. Back in Cyrodiil, bandits usually traveled in smaller groups. Perhaps everything he had heard about Skyrim’s lawlessness in recent years had been true after all.

He looked down the steps and surveyed his handiwork. None of the bandits had survived more than a single blow from his warhammer, and not one of them had even come close to _scratching_ his armor. He had expected better from them.

Malleus now turned to look at the ornate door to the entrance of the barrow and briefly wondered why the ancient Nords would make the entrances to the tombs of their honored ancient dead so grandiose. Weren’t these place supposed to remain undisturbed through the ages? Looking like this, it was a small wonder they attracted all sorts of lowlifes. But he wasn’t here to philosophize. There were bandits to reprimand. He pushed open the doors, noting how smooth the hinges were, and stepped into the gloom of the barrow. Up ahead, he saw a campfire with several bandits around it, and he wasted no time in striding directly towards them.

With the bright light from outside at his back, the bandits at first seemed to think he was one of them.

“Did you take care of that guy outside?” one of them asked.

“I certainly took care of the scum there, yes,” Malleus replied. “But you seem to be mistaken in their number.”

The bandits now drew their weapons and moved to surround Malleus. “You killed everyone outside?” one of them asked incredulously.

Malleus scoffed. “They were thoroughly underwhelming. The power of the gods far surpasses anything a mere bandit could produce, after all. Now, which one of you is Arvel?”

The bandits exchanged glances. “Arvel is far deeper into the barrow. But don’t you worry about him. You should be more concerned about your own safety,” the Argonian in front of him said.

He signaled with his ax, and immediately the group of bandits converged onto Malleus. Malleus used the same block-and-counter move on the Argonian as he’d used on the troll, and the far squishier lizard fell over dead when the sharp blade went through his forehead and into his brain.

Now Malleus was out of the encirclement, and he quickly turned around to swing his hammer in a wide arc. He crushed the arm of the one bandit foolish enough to attempt to block the strike with his shield, and he had enough control over the hammer’s momentum that he could quickly get in another swing at a second bandit.

Less than half a minute later, the last of the bandits had their ribcage reduced to a fine powder. As was his way, Malleus quickly took all the gold from the purses of the dead bandits. He’d spend what he needed to on food and other supplies, like lantern oil, and the rest would be donated to the gods so that the bandits might do their small part in atoning for the sins they had committed in life.

Malleus looked down the dark hallway that led deeper into the barrow, turned on the lantern he had clasped to his belt, and set off. He’d barely walked down the first set of steps when he noticed another bandit up ahead, who was approaching a lever in the middle of the room.

Before Malleus could call out the bandit, the man had already pulled the lever, setting off a series of darts in the walls. The man yelped in pain as the darts hit him, then sank to the floor of the barrow, twitching and foaming at the mouth. Poisoned by his own greed. Malleus could certainly appreciate that kind of poetic justice.

Not eager to join the bandit on the damp floor, Malleus looked around the room he was standing in. Directly behind the lever, there was a gate. Above the gate, he saw two symbols. A third had fallen off and lay on the floor, but it was still recognizable. A quick glance at the other walls of the room revealed a number of pillars, bearing the same kinds of symbols as the ones above the gate.

Malleus quickly discovered that the pillars could be turned with minimal force, and he had soon deduced — thanking the gods for his insight — that the pillars needed to display the same symbols as the one above the door. When he pulled the lever, the gate slid open, and he continued his journey through the barrow.

* * *

The next section of the barrow seemed to consist of a snaking hallway, lined with alcoves in which the ancient Nord dead slumbered. It wasn’t long, however, before Malleus came upon a larger room, the walls of which were covered floor to ceiling in spider webs.

“Hey, you! Help me!” someone yelled from across the room.

Malleus saw something moving in the webbing on the far wall.

“Quickly, before that spider comes back!”

Malleus knew, of course, that this individual was likely a bandit. But perhaps he would know who Arvel was and where he could find the golden claw. He stepped forward, and almost immediately a large shape dropped down from the ceiling.

The bandit in the web began screaming and shouting, but the massive spider only had eyes for Malleus. It shot a blob of poison at him, and Malleus quickly sidestepped it despite his heavy armor. He wordlessly drew his warhammer and dashed in closer, bringing down the heavy hammer onto the spider’s exoskeleton. It went straight through and pulped the already gooey brain of the spider even more.

The monster collapsed with jerking legs, sending the webbed-up bandit into another round of hysterics.

Malleus pulled his hammer from the pulped spider head and walked up to the bandit. “Are you Arvel? I’m here for the golden claw,” he said.

“Yes, the claw. I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the hall of stories, I know how they all fit together. Help me down and I’ll show you. You won’t believe the power the Nords have hidden there,” the bandit said.

So that was what all of it was about. A bandit trying to make himself an even bigger threat to the citizens of Skyrim. Malleus frowned, something the bandit obviously couldn’t see through the featureless great helm Malleus wore. The odds of this bandit actually telling him anything about this mysterious power were slim. But whatever power this was, Malleus was not going to leave it here for another bandit to find. He’d have to take it for himself, and turn whatever it turned out to be over to the proper authorities. 

“Well?! Are you going to cut me down or not?!” Arvel demanded.

Malleus looked at him. “I’ll cut you down,” he said eventually.

“Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you,” Arvel replied.

“It’s good to hear you’re trying to make peace with the gods,” Malleus said. “Now hold still.”

One swing of the warhammer later, the webbing was broken and Arvel lay dead on the floor of the barrow.

Malleus hadn’t lied; it wouldn’t befit a paladin like him to do something like that, after all. He _had_ cut Arvel down. It just so happened that in doing so, he’d also reduced the man’s head to the consistency of tomato soup.

He checked the backpack the bandit had been carrying and found the golden claw he’d set out to retrieve, as well as Arvel’s journal. Officially, his work was done. But returning the claw would have to wait until he had found whatever power Arvel had been talking about. He put the claw and the journal into his backpack and set off deeper into the barrow.

* * *

Only a few winding turns later, Malleus heard shuffling sounds. More bandits, perhaps? He rounded the corner, and found himself face to face not with a bandit, but with a Draugr. He’d heard about these barrow-wights before, these abominations onto the Eight. He had never fought them before, but back in Cyrodiil he had fought his fair share of undead. In fact, his warhammer was especially suited for fighting undead. It carried powerful Turn Undead and Banish enchantments, and none of the zombies or Daedra he’d ever encountered had been able to stand up to it. He looked forward to see how these Nordic wights would fare against him. He raised the hammer and started swinging.

* * *

It turned out that Nordic wights were no sturdier than Cyrodiilic zombies. Malleus’s hammer put them down with laughable ease, and Malleus fought his way through the barrow without much difficulty. Occasionally he’d see some more Frostbite spiders, and even a lone frost troll, but he smashed through them just as easily as he’d done the bandits and the Draugr.

Eventually, he found himself in a long hallway, the walls of which were inscribed with intricate drawings which would no doubt be fascinating for anyone interested in the history of Skyrim, but whose true meaning was lost on Malleus, who was unfamiliar with Nordic symbolism.

At the end of the hallway, there was a large door with a claw-shaped marking in the center, and three concentric rings around it. Much like the pillars he had encountered before, the rings could be rotated to display different symbols, but this time the solution did not seem to be obvious from the surroundings.

Malleus then recalled that Arvel had called the golden claw a ‘key’ and he quickly took out the artifact to examine it. Sure enough, the inside of the claw showed the proper combination of the door, and shortly afterwards the door, which Malleus supposed had been closed for centuries, slid open.

This new room was large and well-lit. Sunlight streamed in through an opening in the ceiling, and fell onto an ornate wall on a dais. A chest and a sarcophagus were also visible. Malleus presumed that whatever ‘power’ Arvel was hoping to find here was locked away in the chest, and he began to climb the stairs.

As he did so, however, he noticed that part of the strange writings on the wall was glowing, and he could swear that he heard the wall…chanting.

He drew his warhammer, ready to fight whatever dark magic was causing this strange phenomenon, and approached the wall. The glow of the markings became brighter, and everything else seemed to dim. The chanting began to drown out Malleus’s own thoughts, and he felt compelled to get closer and closer to the wall. With each step, the glow got brighter and the chanting got louder. When he was only one step away from the wall, the sound of the chanting was almost deafening, and then, suddenly, he could read the glowing markings. In his head, the word resonated.

‘Fus’.

He didn’t quite know what it meant, but he did know that that was what it said. As soon as he had this epiphany of sorts, the chanting disappeared and the glow faded. Whatever magic had compelled him to examine the wall had broken.

Behind him, he heard the lid of the sarcophagus cracking open and he whirled around, finding himself face to face with a Draugr wearing a helmet far more ornate than the others he’d killed up until then.

The Draugr brandished an ebony warhammer not too different from his own and advanced menacingly towards Malleus, who raised his own hammer in response. The Draugr took a swing, and Malleus sidestepped it before countering with a swing of his own.

To his amazement, the Draugr took a small step backwards and allowed Malleus’s attack to sail harmlessly by. No undead he’d ever seen had had the mental faculty to actually dodge an attack. In fact, not many _living_ enemies he’d killed had been bright enough to try that. This foe was clearly stronger than the other Draugr he’d fought thus far.

Feeling the righteous fury of combat welling up in him, Malleus charged forward, locking the handle of his hammer with the Draugr’s, and began pushing the undead abomination to the edge of the dais. But then, without warning, the Draugr lashed out with the spike at the end of the handle, and Malleus was forced to step back to avoid it, followed by another jump back to avoid the follow-up swing the Draugr made at him.

Before the Draugr could overcome the momentum of the second swing, Malleus dashed back in and struck with the bladed end of his warhammer. The flash of Turn Undead magic pulsed through the Draugr, and for a short moment, it was gripped by the terror of the holy magic.

It was all the time Malleus needed, and his next swing crushed the ancient helmet and the head of the Draugr. The force of the blow sent it tumbling back into its coffin, and it shook something loose from within its armor.

Apprehensively, Malleus stepped up to the coffin and looked at the object that had fallen from the Draugr’s armor. It was a stone, on the back of which was written something in the same strange runes that adorned the wall behind him. The front of the stone looked like a very stylized map of Skyrim, dotted with small stars. Was it a treasure map? Or did this stone hint at the ‘power’ Arvel had been seeking?

Maybe he could find someone capable of translating these runes. If this stone hinted at great power, it was too dangerous to be left here. But who might be able to read this? Certainly no one in Riverwood could. Perhaps the court mage of Whiterun would know what it meant. That would be his next destination.


	4. Lively Streets

Whiterun had always been a busy city. Its location in the center of Skyrim meant that just about every trade caravan in the province would visit it at some point, and it also attracted a great deal of wandering merchants and adventurers. The civil war had caused a bit of a drop in the number of people visiting the city, but because of Jarl Balgruuf’s strict policy on remaining neutral, the impact of the war wasn’t as big here as it was in many other cities. If you were going to be a beggar anywhere in Skyrim, then, Whiterun was definitely the best place to be one.

That fact wasn’t exactly enough to cheer Lucia up, though. Ever since her mom had died and her aunt and uncle had kicked her off the farm — _her_ farm! — she’d been living on the streets here. Sure, people pitied her, but their pity clearly wasn’t worth any gold most of the time. If it hadn’t been for Hulda giving her some leftovers every now and then, Lucia would have been in a lot of trouble.

Or, well, she would have been, if she hadn’t learned to pick pockets quite well. It amazed Lucia how quickly her hunger had helped her get past her ‘stealing is wrong’ attitude. Whenever she saw a merchant with an easily accessible purse, she’d wait until they would start haggling with one of the local vendors, and then cut a hole in the bottom of the purse with the old iron dagger she’d managed to take from her farm. She’d gotten a few beatings from some of the merchants, back when she began doing this, and she’d even spent a few nights in the Dragonsreach dungeon, but nowadays she could fairly reliably get some money on days when people were too stingy to spare a single gold coin.

This particular morning, though, there hadn’t been many merchants or adventurers in town, and Lucia was wandering aimlessly around the Gildergreen in the Winds District, wondering where she was going to find food if there weren’t any adventurers or merchants. She didn’t like begging from the people who lived in the city, and she certainly wasn’t going to try and rob any of them.

She sat down on one of the benches around the tree, and looked at the statue of Talos, still proudly displayed despite the ban on Talos worship that was apparently the cause of the civil war. Lucia had never really cared about the ban on Talos. None of the Divines were all that important to her, especially since they clearly didn’t care about _her_, either.

To a lot of the men in Skyrim, though, the ban on Talos was very serious business. So much so that Heimskr spent all of his time sermonizing at everyone within earshot. Lucia had heard all of his speeches so often by now that she was fairly capable of drowning them out, even when she looking straight at him. He was just as much part of the scenery as the statue.

“Hey Lucia,” someone said.

Lucia looked up and saw a girl her own age standing there. “Oh, hey, Mila,” she replied. “Not helping your mom today?”

She tried to keep the jealousy out of her voice. Mila was a sweet girl, unlike Braith.

“I am,” Mila said. “But I thought you might be hungry because the city is closed and there’s no one to give you money, so I brought you some food.”

She held out a small bag containing two apples and two carrots. She smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry it’s not more, but my mom says we can’t afford to give away more. I think she likes you, though, because Brenuin usually gets less.”

Lucia took one of the apples from the bag. It gleamed brightly in the sun and looked absolutely delicious.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Then she registered what else Mila had said, and she asked, “Wait, did you say the city is closed? Why?”

“Someone said they saw a dragon,” Mila said.

Lucia cocked her head “A dragon? Aren’t the dragons all dead?” she asked.

Mila shrugged. “I guess not, if someone saw one. The Jarl wouldn’t close the city if it wasn’t true, would he?”

“I guess not…” Lucia muttered. “Thanks for the food,” she added.

Mila smiled happily and went back to the market to help her mother.

Lucia took a bite out of her apple and savored every bit of flavor it had. She hoped that whoever had seen the dragon had been wrong, and that the city would quickly be opened up again, because if the city was closed, Mila and her mother would need all of the money and food they had for themselves soon. She wondered what good it did to have to city closed anyway, since dragons were supposed to be able to fly. A locked gate wasn’t going to stop one.

She finished her apple and leaned back on the bench with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the market down in the Plains District. Every now and then she could make out some of the words, but for the most part she just heard indistinct muttering. It was quite relaxing.

She wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep at some point, but she definitely woke up when she heard someone shouting, “Out of my way, Nazeem! You can be a smug bastard all you want later. Right now, I need to speak to the Jarl.”

Lucia opened her eyes just in time to see a man clad in studded armor barreling past. He had a large, banded iron shield on his back and at his hip was a steel sword. Unlike most other adventurers that came to town, this man wasn’t wearing a helmet.

She was about to open her mouth and ask for some gold, but she stopped when she noticed the hard look in the man’s blue eyes. He looked like he’d kill her if she said anything. Instead, she just watched as the man strode up the stairs to Dragonsreach.

She wondered who this man was, and why the guards had let him into the city if it was closed because of the dragons. Maybe he’d killed them? He certainly looked capable of doing that. But somehow, she didn’t think that this strange adventurer was the kind of person to go around killing every town guard just because he could.

She wondered if she could ever look that intimidating, and she envisioned herself clad in armor, strolling into a city with a bag full of loot and money, and then just marching into the Jarl’s castle to ask for a job, or maybe to claim a bounty.

But for now, she was too small to stand a chance at fighting bandits. She wouldn’t even be able to lift a sword properly, let alone kill someone with it. She supposed she could use a dagger and stab them in the back, but bandits rarely worked alone. For the time being, she’d stick to begging and picking pockets, no matter how little glory there was in doing those things.

* * *

It wasn’t much later when the adventurer came back down the stairs. This time, he seemed far more relaxed and less in a hurry, and he even sat down on the bench next to Lucia. She took a deep breath and went for it.

“Mister? Could you spare a coin?”

The adventurer turned to look at her, and to Lucia’s surprise the harsh look she’d seen in his eyes just half an hour or so ago was completely gone. Instead, he looked at her almost like…a father.

“Of course,” he said softly.

He pulled out a purse and handed the whole thing to Lucia.

“That’s about a hundred gold,” he said. “That should allow you to buy food for a while.”

Lucia was astonished. “A hundred? Wow, thank you so much, mister!” She’d never seen an adventurer this generous before.

The man smiled. His beard hid most of his mouth, but Lucia could see it in his eyes.

“My name is Tyr,” he said. “Who are you?”

There was something strange about his voice when he asked that, and Lucia had the feeling that she might remind him of someone. Maybe someone he’d lost?

“I’m Lucia,” she said.

Tyr closed his eyes for a moment, and now Lucia was sure that she was somehow familiar to Tyr.

“Nice to meet you, Lucia,” he said.

“Why…why did you give me so much money?” Lucia asked. “Not that I’m ungrateful, just…a hundred gold is a lot.”

Rather than saying that she reminded him of someone, like Lucia had expected, he simply said, “I grew up on the streets too. I wasn’t an orphan, but I grew up in the Imperial City Waterfront just after the Great War. I know what it’s like to be hungry, and to have to beg and steal to survive.”

“How did you know I steal?” Lucia asked.

Tyr grinned at her. “Because it’s lucrative, and because traveling merchants let their guard down the second they step into a walled city.”

“Did you ever get caught?”

Tyr’s grin got even wider. “Oh, yes. More times than I can count, especially when I was still learning. But the Waterfront had more than enough experienced thieves hanging around, and many of them were willing to teach a few tricks to youngsters like me. I never joined the Thieves Guild, though.”

Lucia’s eyes widened. “There’s a Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil?”

Tyr nodded. “There’s one in Skyrim too, although at the moment they’re in a bit of a rough patch. I’ll go and help them out at some point, but for now they’ll be fine without me. Interested in joining them?” he asked.

Lucia looked away. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t say no to more money in my life, but…I like being able to go my own way. I don’t want to be told to do jobs just because someone says I should.”

Tyr laughed. “The Thieves Guild is a bit different than a regular guild. Most people who are in it are just there to line their own pockets with gold, and are only interested in making use of the Guild’s fences. They have leaders, people who take on jobs from clients to steal specific items from specific people, but most of the thieves just do whatever they feel like. Part of the Guild’s trouble is that they don’t have as many fences as they used to. Their influence is limited to Riften nowadays, and they’re hardly the feared organization they once were even there.”

“You seem to know a lot about them for someone who isn’t a member,” Lucia said.

Tyr looked off into the distance, and Lucia was afraid she might have somehow insulted him, but before she could say anything, he turned back to face her.

“Do you believe in destiny?” he asked.

Lucia didn’t respond immediately. Destiny? What did any of that have to do with the Thieves Guild?

“I, um, maybe?” she said. When Tyr remained silent, she asked, “Do you?”

Tyr nodded. “Yes. When I was younger, I didn’t, but my mentor just wouldn’t stop telling me about it. He said that I was destined for greatness.”

He smiled, a faraway look on his face.

“As a teenager, especially one living in the Waterfront off of whatever I could steal, it was the best thing I’d ever heard. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, but I latched onto it.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts.

“He told me that throughout history, during times of great turmoil, certain individuals would appear. And these individuals would have the power to change the course of history. Their potential was utterly limitless and they could reach whatever goal they had set for themselves. They would also inevitably find that they would end up as the leader of every major faction they joined. If they enjoyed fighting, they’d be guild master of the Fighters Guild. If they were mages, they would become the Arch-mage of the Mages Guild. But all of that would just be secondary to their real purpose. Each and every one of these people, these Heroes, would have one main purpose for existing, and that purpose was so important that destiny itself would change to accommodate their presence.”

He looked at Lucia, and upon seeing her incredulous look, he smiled.

“I know. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale, doesn’t it? And not even a particularly good one. I mean, a hero who can do everything and who always wins? How boring is that? But it wasn’t a lie. Heroes like that really exist, and they really _have_ influenced history with their actions.”

“And you’re one of them?” Lucia asked. She couldn’t keep the skeptical tone out of her voice.

Tyr nodded solemnly. “I am. But I…I wasn’t very good at what I did. I’m pretty sure I was the absolute worst Hero history had ever known. I fulfilled my duty to the world, but ultimately I lost everything, every_one_, who mattered to me.”

Lucia said nothing. She could definitely hear that Tyr had been through a lot, but strong as he looked, he hardly looked like the kind of person who could ‘shape history’ or anything like that. And nobody in town seemed to recognize him, either. Maybe he’d just fooled himself into believing everything he had just told her? She’d heard that things like that sometimes happened to people who had been through a lot.

But instead of openly voicing her doubts, Lucia asked, “Who did you lose?”

Tyr abruptly stood up from the bench, so abruptly that Lucia almost jumped up as well.

“Tyr?”

He looked at her, and she saw the pain in his eyes.

“You.”

With that one word, he turned around and walked away.

* * *

Lucia leaned back against the wall of the Bannered Mare. It was late, and all the patrons were either heading home or to their rooms. With the money Tyr had given her, she’d bought herself a proper dinner and spent the rest of the evening around the fire, listening to the talk of the warriors and Mikael’s songs. Now that everyone was heading home, Lucia too had settled in for the night in her familiar spot behind the inn.

Ever since her conversation with Tyr that afternoon, she’d been thinking about what he meant. He had said that _she_ was the person he’d lost, but she hadn’t even met him before today. Surely he meant someone else, someone who just happened to look like her. But no matter how unlikely his story about Heroes and destiny had sounded, and no matter how impossible it was that she was the person he’d lost, she felt like he had been telling the truth. Could someone be so convinced of a lie that they started to believe it themselves? Lucia didn’t know, and she didn’t think she’d find out. Tyr was clearly an adventurer, and adventurers never stayed around for very long. And even if he returned to Whiterun at some point, there was no guarantee she’d run into him.

Something moved in the darkness ahead of her, and Lucia reached for her dagger. Sometimes one of the other beggars would try to take her spot behind the inn because it was nice and warm and out of the wind. Most were bigger than her, but she was usually better fed than they were — the perks of being a little girl instead of a dirty old man — so she was generally able to fend them off and protect her spot.

“So, this is where you hang out, you little bitch,” the moving shadow said.

Lucia’s blood ran cold. She recognized the voice as a particular merchant’s, one she’d pickpocketed the day before. She had thought that he hadn’t noticed her, but she’d clearly been wrong.

“So you thought you could steal my money, did you?”

The merchant’s voice sounded a bit slurred. Good. If he was drunk, Lucia might be able to get away from him. He came a bit closer, and now Lucia could more or less make out his features in the light of a nearby fire pit.

She got up and held her dagger in front of her. “Get away from me,” she said. She mentally cursed the waver in her voice when she said it.

“No, little bitch, I don’t think I will,” the merchant replied. He took another step closer.

He seemed much larger in the dim light of the fire pit than he’d done in the daylight. Lucia had two walls to her back and the merchant stood directly in the way of her escape. Whichever way she planned to go, he could always grab her. She’d have to fight.

“You made a fool out of me yesterday,” he said, his tone low and threatening despite the light slur.

Lucia’s breathing quickened. If he had wanted to attack her, why hadn’t he moved yet? He was just coming closer one step at a time.

“Bitches like you should know their place. And the only place for a _cunt_ like you is underneath me.”

Oh, no. He wasn’t just going to attack her. Lucia’s heart hammered against her ribs.

“I’m w-warning you, don’t come any closer,” she in a voice so thin she hardly recognized it as her own.

“Your little butter knife isn’t going to help you.”

The merchant took another step closer. Lucia’s legs turned to jelly. Another step closer.

“Help me…” Lucia whispered. She wanted to scream, but this whisper was all she could manage.

The merchant took another step. She could smell the alcohol around him now. He reached out for her and she wildly swung her dagger at him.

Despite being drunk, the merchant easily caught her flailing arm and wrenched the dagger away from her. A wide, crazed grin appeared on his face. His teeth gleamed in the faint light of the fire.

“Let her go.”

Tyr’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was extremely cold.

The merchant whirled around, pulling Lucia with him. “You’ll just have to wait your turn,” he said.

Everything happened really quickly then. Tyr dashed forward so incredibly fast that Lucia could hardly follow his movements. He easily pulled the drunk merchant away from her and threw him into the wall of the inn. The merchant sank to the ground in a daze, but Tyr wasn’t done yet. He drew his sword and drove it straight through the merchant’s belly. The man gasped, unable to even scream because of the intense pain. Tyr twisted the sword, and now the man _did_ scream.

“You fucked with the wrong person,” Tyr growled. “Now, in whatever shithole of an afterlife you aspire to, I suggest you spend a good long time thinking about how you ended up there.”

With an aggressive motion, Tyr pulled back his sword. In his left hand, a ball of lightning crackled. He shot a glance at Lucia.

“Cover your ears,” he said, and Lucia immediately did so.

Even with her hands pressed firmly over her ears, the thunderclap was the loudest sound she’d ever heard. She could feel the impact in her bones and her hair stood on end. She could smell charred flesh, and she saw the body of the merchant twitching horribly.

“What in the name of Talos was that?!” a guard yelled as he ran around the corner.

Tyr looked at him. “I exterminated some vermin,” he said.

He threw a bag of coins at the guard.

“There. A thousand gold. My bounty is paid.”

The guard looked from Tyr, to Lucia, to the smoking merchant on the ground, then back to Lucia.

He seemed to realize what was going on at that moment, because he nodded gravely and said, “I see.”

He threw back the bag of coins. “Here. Consider it payment for services rendered to Whiterun.” The guard then turned around and walked away.

Lucia could already hear him shouting to his approaching colleagues that the situation had been dealt with. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Tyr, who had now dropped his terrifying expression and just looked deeply concerned. Then, without warning, she burst into tears.

* * *

“Better now?” Tyr asked when Lucia had calmed down a bit.

Both of them were leaning back against the wall of the Bannered Mare. The merchant’s body had been removed by two guards.

She nodded. “Y-yeah. I…I guess. Sorry,” she added.

“For what? For that creep assaulting you? That wasn’t your fault,” Tyr said.

Lucia looked away. “Well…I _did_ pickpocket him yesterday,” she admitted.

Tyr shrugged. “So? What he was about to do to you was far, far worse than simply pickpocketing him. Honestly, for what he did I should have hurt him a lot more than I did.”

Lucia didn’t reply. In all her life, she’d never seen anyone move so fast, or kill someone so brutally. She wondered if this had been the way he lost ‘her’ before as well, for him to react the way he did.

“How did you get so fast?” she asked.

Tyr chuckled. “I used to be faster, actually. It actually pissed me off that I’m not anymore. Well, not yet, anyway.”

Lucia looked up at him in confusion. “What?”

Tyr remained silent for a moment. “It’s getting late,” he said eventually. “I promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, but there is something I need to take care of first.”

He fell silent.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here on your own after what just happened. Come on, I’ll take you to my place. I bought it this afternoon. It’s still a mess, and the corpse of that annoying squatter who lived there is still in the pantry, but there’s a bed, at least. You can take that and I’ll put down my bedroll on the floor.”

“Are you…are you sure?” Lucia asked. The idea of having a bed, even if it was only for one night, was extremely attractive to her.

Tyr nodded. “Of course,” he said.

He got up and held out his hand. Lucia looked up at the face of this strange adventurer. She still wasn’t sure if his story about being a Hero was true. But right now, he was at least a hero in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have the fourth chapter, and the final one for today. The next chapter will be the final setup chapter, and then we’ll start moving the direction of my own plot, as well as a mountain of tangents. These four chapters have set up all but one of my viewpoint characters, so I thought this would be a nice moment to quit. You might have noticed a couple of descriptions that don’t match the game. That’s because I haven’t played Skyrim without mods in years, and I wouldn’t even know what vanilla Skyrim looks like anymore. Basically, anything that works differently from the vanilla game can be assumed to be from some kind of mod. The most obvious ones, especially later on, will probably be my inclusion of elements from Better Vampires and Moonlight Tales. Anyway, I’m very interested to find out your thoughts of these first few chapters. Don’t be afraid to be critical, either. I love praise as much as the next guy, but without criticism I’m never going to get better. See you in the next one!


	5. Dragon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final setup chapter for the story. I meant to have this up sooner, but I had some PC trouble. Please let me know what you think!

When Tyr woke up, Lucia was still asleep. He intended to keep it that way, but when he tried to silently head down the stairs after packing up his bedroll, the top step creaked loud enough to wake up the Draugr in Ustengrav. Lucia sleepily sat up in the bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Tyr said.

“That’s fine,” Lucia said. She yawned. “I usually get up pretty early anyway. I…don’t get to sleep in an actual bed all that much.”

Tyr nodded slowly. As much as he wanted to suggest adopting Lucia already, he knew he had to wait. Even though he wasn’t, strictly speaking, in a hurry, he did have an awful lot to do and prepare for. He wouldn’t exactly be father-of-the-year material, being away all the time. Then again, he reflected, he probably wouldn’t exactly be father-of-the-year material now, either, with his propensity for gruesome violence and love for swearing loudly and often. Oh well.

“Well, I’m going to make some breakfast. There’s more than enough for you, too, if you want.”

Lucia looked at him like he’d gone mad. “You really think I’d rather go out and beg than eat breakfast with you?”

Tyr grinned and winked at her. He quickly whipped something edible and stuffed it down just as fast.

Lucia looked at him with astonishment. “Do you always eat that fast?” she asked.

“Not always, but usually. It depends on how much I have to do that day, and if I expect to be attacked. When I’m out in the wild, I usually take my time. It’s when I’m near a road or on a job that I have to be quick.”

“So, you’re on a job now?” Lucia asked.

Tyr nodded. “Yes, but it’s a bit different from my usual jobs. When I come back, later this afternoon, I’ll tell you exactly what this job is. For now, all you need to know is that I’m going to kill a dragon, and that quite literally all of Skyrim is going to hear about that before the day is out.”

Lucia gave him a skeptical look, but said nothing. That was fine; Tyr hadn’t expected her to believe every word he said, especially at this point in the timeline where he was nothing more than a mercenary. He could have proven who he was earlier, of course, but he didn’t want to steal the Greybeards’ thunder, nor alter this particular part of the timeline.

He’d enjoyed his first battle with Mirmulnir all those years ago because it had been the first time in ages he’d actually felt threatened. He was looking forward to reliving that moment…even though by now, Mirmulnir was unlikely to be a threat.

He said goodbye to Lucia, pushing back the memories of the past timeline and his last goodbye to her, then left for Dragonsreach. It felt so good to walk through Whiterun again without its scars from both the civil war and the attack by the Thalmor. Even though the civil war would still come to Whiterun in the end, Tyr had every intention of preventing the Thalmor from destroying the city again.

As he ascended the steps to the castle, Tyr wondered if Delphine had heeded his warning not to meddle in the dragon business. He hoped she would. If at all possible, Tyr didn’t want either of the Blades to get involved in the Alduin matter this time. He was curious if his ability to bend causality over backwards would extend that far, or if the Blades’ involvement was preordained. If it was, he thought bitterly, he would probably end up having to kill them both. There was no question about it; if it came to killing them, or allowing them to plot against Paarthurnax, the two Blades were acceptable losses. He didn’t really want to kill Esbern, but the lore master wouldn’t just stand by and let him off Delphine, or be any more forgiving towards Paarthurnax. But all of that was nothing but conjecture. Maybe Delphine wouldn’t actually be there.

* * *

When Tyr strode into Farengar’s study of sorts, he immediately spotted Delphine. Damn that woman. Arngeir was absolutely right about the Blades: always meddling in affairs they didn’t understand.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay out of this?” Tyr asked coldly, interrupting whatever conversation Delphine and Farengar had been having.

Both of them turned around. Delphine’s expression instantly matched Tyr’s dark scowl.

“I wasn’t aware _you_ were the ‘reliable help’ Farengar had set on this task,” she said stonily.

“Delphine, with everything you’re not aware of you could fill more books than the College of Winterhold could handle. Fortunately, I _do_ know that you’re Farengar’s source in all of this, so I’ve prepared accordingly.”

He pulled a stone tablet out of his bag.

“I know that this is what you want,” he said. Then he crushed the tablet to dust.

“You fool! Do you realize what you’ve done?! What you’ve just destroyed?!” Delphine exploded.

“Yes I do, far better than you could possibly imagine. I’ll tell you this just once more: stay out of this. Do you understand what that means? It means FUCK OFF.”

Delphine looked absolutely murderous, and Tyr fully hoped she’d snap so he could legally cut her smug head off her body, but to his great disappointment she reined in her anger and stomped away. He looked after her with a contemptuous look on his face, then turned to Farengar, who looked quite traumatized.

“I know you were looking forward to inspecting that tablet,” Tyr said.

He reached into his pack and drew out the Dragonstone.

“So here it is. I created a fake by using some Alteration magic on a piece of rock I found that looked about right.”

He held out the Dragonstone to Farengar, but when the wizard reached for it Tyr gently pulled his arm back.

“But! Delphine hears nothing of this. Ever. I don’t give a skeever’s ass how much she pays you. It’s not worth losing your head over.”

He narrowed his eyes so Farengar would get the message, and when the now deathly pale man gave a nervous nod, Tyr handed him the Dragonstone.

Farengar cradled the thing as if it was a newborn. Tyr had no use for the stone. He already knew where the burial mounds were, as well as the order in which they’d be exhumed. Besides, a lot of the dragons Alduin was resurrecting weren’t even _from_ the burial mounds in Skyrim.

“Farengar!”

When Tyr heard Irileth’s voice, he almost grinned. It was time.

“You need to come at once! A dragon’s been sighted nearby.”

Tyr didn’t listen much to the rest of the conversation. He already knew that Mirmulnir would be at the Western Watchtower, which wasn’t that far from the city. He felt the nervous, excited energy he always felt before a big fight. Most people, even most large groups of people, weren’t much of a threat to Tyr. His natural, magicka-boosted healing made him nearly impossible to kill.

Dragons, though, were just as tough as he was. Not all of them, but the older, stronger dragons were definitely capable of killing him. Not much later, Irileth told Tyr to join her in the dragon killing expedition, and soon they and a small group of Whiterun guards were jogging towards the tower.

Behind the excitement of the upcoming fight, Tyr felt something else. Nerves. Not that he might die, but about what kind of impact his actions now were going to have. He hoped that, because the timing of the revelation of his ability to use the Thu’um was roughly the same as the first time, the events involving the Greybeards would happen like they did the first time.

Even though he’d come back with the express purpose of changing events, his meeting with the Greybeards wasn’t something he wanted to stop. Oh well, he could always go up to High Hrothgar himself and stand on the steps, bellowing all his Shouts to the sky.

Tyr had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed that Irileth and the guards were hiding in the tall grass surrounding the tower. Tyr himself stood right in the middle of the road. He looked at Irileth and the guards, made a big show of rolling his eyes at them, and then walked towards the tower.

When he approached, a frantic guard came running out of the tower. “No! Get back! It’s still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!”

Tyr nodded. “I know. Get back into the tower. I’m going to kill it.”

He’d barely finished speaking when another guard yelled, “Kynareth save us, here he comes again!”

Tyr looked at the mountains. He could indeed see Mirmulnir flying towards the tower with great speed. He turned to look at Irileth and the guards. “All of you, back off. I have this,” he said.

Irileth looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you mad?! You can’t fight that thing alone; you’ll be fried to a crisp!”

Tyr shrugged impatiently. “Then you can fight him after I’m dead and tell my charred remains ‘I told you so’, okay? Now go in that tower and hide!”

Irileth clearly wanted to protest more, but to her ire and Tyr’s great amusement, the guards she’d brought were already running for the safety of the tower. Overruled by her soldiers, a fuming Irileth ran after them.

She wasn’t a moment too soon. A huge pillar of flame seared the ground between Tyr and the tower as Mirmulnir flew past. He lazily turned around a bit further, then flew right at Tyr, the one easy target near the tower.

Before he could begin to use his Fire Breath, Tyr shouted, “Huzrah, Mirmulnir! Zu’u Dovahkiin! Fun Alduin zu’u bo fah rok!”

_Hearken, Mirmulnir! I am Dragonborn! Tell Alduin I’m coming for him!_

Mirmulnir flared his wings and hovered in the air above Tyr. His eyes glittered dangerously, and Tyr knew that, far from being intimidated, Mirmulnir was now even more eager to fight. He’d been challenged by a legendary warrior, after all.

Tyr grinned, and he could have sworn Mirmulnir grinned back. He heard Paarthurnax’s voice in the back of his head. _“There are traditions that must be observed by a first meeting between two of the dov.”_

Tyr spread his arms wide, inviting Mirmulnir to speak first.

Mirmulnir was happy to oblige. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

“FEIM!”

Tyr’s shorter Shout meant that he was quick enough to have become ethereal by the time Mirmulnir’s flames washed over him. He supposed it counted as cheating, but even Tyr wasn’t stupid enough to deliberately take a Fire Breath from a dragon.

The flames were dying down, and Tyr took his turn to speak. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Mirmulnir, being a dragon, didn’t elect to turn ethereal to survive the blast of flame. To Tyr’s satisfaction, he seemed a bit shocked by how powerful Tyr’s Shout had been. It was probably nowhere near the power of a dragon, but more than likely stronger than the Thu’um of the ancient Tongues had been.

Mirmulnir recovered quickly, however, and took off to gain height. Tyr used the short respite to take a deep breath. The pleasantries were over, and now the real fight would start. It would be a short one.

Mirmulnir came swooping down from the sky, and Tyr calmly tracked him until he felt the dragon had come close enough.

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!”

The blue blast struck Mirmulnir, and the dragon roared in shock as he was forced to experience the concept of transience, of _mortality_. Flapping weakly, he messed up his trajectory and crashed into the ground not far from Tyr.

Tyr strode over to the hunched-over Mirmulnir. The crash landing and the lingering effects from Dragonrend still had him stunned, and Tyr quickly dodged his weak attempt at bite, ramming his sword straight up through Mirmulnir’s jaw and into his brain. He violently pulled the sword back, and Mirmulnir sagged to the ground, twitching…and disintegrating.

Tyr stood a few steps back and allowed his slain enemy’s soul to merge with his own. Devouring a dragon soul was a strange experience, even though Tyr, by now, had a lot of experience with it. It wasn’t like the soul was stored somewhere. Instead, it just felt like a vast quantity of pure _knowledge_ had been added to his own soul.

But dragons, being ageless beings, perceived the world in such a fundamentally different way from humans, even one who had been a vampire for some time, that Tyr had never been able to do more with the knowledge he gained than using them to learn the meaning of the Words of Power he came across in his travels. If he ever learned to understand the way dragons perceived the world, and if he ever truly learned the intricacies of the dragon language (his earlier challenge to Mirmulnir had been one he’d rehearsed several times), he figured his knowledge would be limitless. But that was a project for the future.

Right now, it was time to look smug. He put on his best shit-eating grin and looked at Irileth, who had come over upon seeing Mirmulnir die, and who looked equal parts amazed and exasperated.

“What did you do?” she simply asked.

Tyr didn’t even get a chance to reply before one of the guards chimed in. “He’s Dragonborn! He used the Voice to bring down the dragon, and then ate its soul.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irileth said dismissively. “The Dragonborn is just a figure from ancient Nord legends.”

Tyr shrugged. “He _is_ right, though. I’m Dragonborn. But hey, don’t take my word for it, even though you literally just saw me eat this dragon’s soul. The official announcement is due any minute now.”

Irileth clearly wanted to ask what Tyr meant, but her question was rendered moot when a quartet of Voices made the very earth rumble.

“DOVAHKIIN!”

Tyr gave Irileth a meaningful look. “Good enough?” he asked.

Irileth sighed in defeat. “Let’s go report to Jarl Balgruuf,” she said sourly.

Tyr grinned at the guards as Irileth began to walk back. The guards just gave him awestruck looks. Tyr’s grin got even wider. It was good to be back.

* * *

“I assign you Lydia as your personal Housecarl. While someone of your stature may not exactly need a bodyguard, it is still customary for a Thane to have one…and my niece can be quite convincing,” Balgruuf said.

“As well she should be! She can learn a lot from a warrior like the Dragonborn, I’m sure,” Hrongar said proudly.

Tyr had never really realized that Lydia was Hrongar’s daughter, and it made him a bit uneasy about his alliance with the Stormcloaks last time. Although he hadn’t wanted to depose Balgruuf even then; he’d just done it under orders from Ulfric. This time would be different.

He thanked Balgruuf for the honor of being named Thane of Whiterun, and then began to head back to Breezehome. It was time he gave Lucia some answers. Before he could leave Dragonsreach, though, someone approached him.

“Greetings, my Thane.”

He’d completely forgotten that he’d met Lydia here last time. He was so used to having her guard Breezehome that he’d expected her to be there now as well.

“Hello, Lydia. Just Tyr is fine, for future reference.”

“Yes, my Thane.”

Tyr gave her a look, and she smirked at him. Huh. He’d never noticed she had a sense of humor. He realized that even during all the time he’d known her in the last timeline, he’d never actually taken the time to really get to know her. He knew nothing about her, and yet she’d been one of the first people he’d met here. But he had been so caught up in the whole Dragonborn business, and so used to doing things alone, that he’d just never bothered. But here was a second chance if there ever was one. This time he’d make an effort.

“Alright then. Come with me,” he said.

Lydia grinned widely at him. “Where are we going first?” she asked.

“First, we’re heading to Breezehome. Someone is waiting for me there. I promised to tell her exactly who I am and what I’m going to do in Skyrim. I think you should hear all of that as well. But you better get ready, because it’s going to be a long, convoluted story.”

* * *

After introducing Lucia and Lydia to each other, Tyr told them to take a sea and fixed a drink for both of them. Then, he started pacing in front of them. This was it. This was the moment where he’d have to explain everything he knew about destiny and Heroes and causality and… He took a deep breath.

“Okay. What I’m about to tell you is going to sound batshit insane. I can assure you, though, that every word of it is true.”

He looked at Lucia.

“I told you about Heroes yesterday. People who can influence destiny just by existing. I also told you that I am one of them, and that I did what I was destined to do. Al of that is true, except that in this timeline none of that happened yet.”

He paused. Both Lucia and Lydia said nothing; they just stared at him blankly. Tyr continued with his story.

“In my original timeline, I came here to make a profit in the civil war. I was a mercenary, and a damn good one. In Cyrodiil, everyone knew who I was. Here…not so much. I saw it as a fresh start, of sorts…but then, Alduin attacked Helgen. My life went crazy. I turned out to be the Dragonborn of legend, destined to stop Alduin to prevent the end of the world.

“And you know what? I did. I went to Sovngarde itself on the back of a friendly dragon, and I killed Alduin. Then I joined the Companions, and I became their Harbinger. I became Arch-Mage at the College. Some nutjob in Riften resurrected an old vampire hunter’s order, and I joined them, met a vampire girl I definitely wanted to protect from her crazy father _and_ the hunters, switched sides, and ended up becoming Lord of the Volkihar vampire clan. Then I went to Solstheim, where the very first Dragonborn, Miraak, was planning his return, and I killed him in Hermaeus Mora’s realm of Apocrypha.”

Tyr knew he was rambling at this point, but he _had_ managed to keep his involvements with Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood quiet. Not because he feared either of these two people would betray him, but because he liked giving them plausible deniability in case it ever became necessary.

“It sounds unlikely, that one person would be destined for all of these things, right? That’s because none of it was coincidental. All those times I happened to be ‘in the right place at the right time’, weren’t coincidences. My old mentor back in Cyrodiil told me that, and after I killed Miraak and returned from Solstheim I decided to look into it. What I found was odd, often incomprehensible, but a lot of the people I’d met over the course of my journey were able to help me figure things out.”

He looked from Lucia to Lydia and back. Now came the most important part of the story; the part that was vital for them to understand.

“Have you ever heard about Dragon Breaks? Like the Middle Dawn or the Warp in the West?” he asked.

Lucia shook her head, but Lydia said, “I’ve heard stories. None of them made sense, though. People giving birth to their own parents, several people gaining control over the same artifact at the same time…honestly, I never believed any of it, myself.”

Tyr nodded slowly. “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you. This time, though… A Dragon Break is basically a period of time in which logical cause and effect stop being logical. The impossible becomes possible. Things happen, even when they don’t happen. Even the Elder Scrolls themselves can’t say anything about what’s going on in them…except for the times they can.”

“I’m…not really getting any of this,” Lucia said.

Tyr gave her an apologetic smile.

“I don’t think anyone can really get it. Scholars have been studying these things for centuries and I had help from some very, very ancient people while I was working all of this out. The reason all of this is important, though, is that all Heroes are essentially walking Dragon Breaks. Causality doesn’t work the way it normally should around them. They end up being every single faction’s chosen one, they’re destined to save the world from multiple threats…except they also _aren’t_ destined for any of that. They can choose. At any point in their life, they can tell destiny to ram it and live out their lives the way they choose. They can be killed in the course of trying to fulfill their destiny. It’s only when they choose to act and when they have the skill to succeed that they become remarkable. And these things don’t just affect big, world-changing events, either. In any situation where a Hero is in the right place at the right time, it’s because causality broke to make it happen. If, say, a group of miners needs help with some mercenaries taking over their mine, the Hero will see their troubles occurring the moment he first arrives there. If he chooses not to visit the mine, the problem will not exist, but when he arrives, it will always have existed at exactly that time.”

Lydia and Lucia exchanged glances. Tyr gave them a few moments. He knew everything he said sounded insane. And to think he hadn’t even gotten to the actual point yet.

“Okay,” Lydia said eventually. “Say we accept that this is true. You are one of these Heroes, you did all of those great deeds in the past, and somehow your very existence warps the fabric of reality. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here, in this time, where none of those things have happened.”

Tyr inclined his head. “It doesn’t,” he agreed.

He looked at the smoldering coals of his fire pit. This was it.

“I already told you I was a mercenary. I did whatever people asked of me, as long as I got paid. Nothing was too crazy or too big. If someone wanted me to clear out a bandit den, I did. If someone wanted me to steal something, I did. If someone wanted a warning sent to someone else, I carried it out. So in essence, my entire adult life, I just went from place to place, doing whatever people told me to do, without really thinking much. I got paid, so what did I care?”

He smiled grimly.

“I was an idiot. When I came here, I did the same thing. People tell me to go to places, do things, and most of all to do everything fast. I was used to it, so I did what they wanted. I never stopped to think or to reflect. Including when I joined the Stormcloaks.”

He saw Lydia’s look harden somewhat.

“I know, I know. But you have to understand that the moment I set foot in Skyrim, the Empire tried to execute me. And I personally felt that an independent Skyrim could rebuild itself better, and then rejoin the Empire at a later date, when it had gotten over its own weaknesses.”

“That’s…” Lydia began.

“Stupid? I know. Believe me, I know.” Tyr sighed. “Whatever people may say, Ulfric isn’t a bad man. But his methods are…not the right ones. At the time, though, I didn’t stop to think. We won the war, the Empire was kicked out of Skyrim, and all was well.”

He looked at Lucia.

“During my travels, I met two orphan girls. One in Windhelm, and one here in Whiterun. I wanted to help them, because my own youth was spent on the streets begging and stealing and fighting as well. So I built a house, and I adopted them. I hired some staff for the house, including my Housecarl from the Pale, Greg. We had a good life there, for some time.”

His expression hardened.

“And then the Thalmor came. They attacked the Empire and Skyrim at the same time. Both armies were still weak from the civil war and the dragon crisis. Tamriel was on fire again. I fought them, of course. Everyone did. But not even I can be everywhere at once, and one night, when I was away…the Thalmor burned down my house.”

Lucia and Lydia had paled.

“Everyone who had been there died in the flames. I was too late to save them. Too late to save _you_.”

A bitter laugh.

“I killed them, of course, the Elves who did this. But what good did it do me? I had lost the only people who mattered to me. But what if there was another way? I’d learned a lot, researching the nature of Heroes. At the time, it had been simple curiosity, a desire to find out why I had always been everyone’s chosen one, and the research was a hobby more than anything. Interesting factoids whose actual usefulness was questionable. But now I get the feeling that this, too, is a part of being a Hero. That, somehow, destiny conspired to make me look for that information so that I could use it when the time came. I realized that the Time-Wound at the Throat of the World still existed. I had _three_ Elder Scrolls, as well as a form of magic that essentially works by bending reality. There was _nothing_ I couldn’t do. And so…I went back to the Time-Wound. I read an Elder Scroll, and it gave me a Shout, and the Shout brought me back here, to the day when Alduin emerged, and the day my destiny, my real tenure as a Hero, began.”

Lydia shook her head. “I…It sounds unbelievable,” she said.

“I believe it,” Lucia said softly.

Tyr smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“So what now, then? You’re back here to…what? Prevent the Thalmor from attacking? I don’t know if even _you_ could do that,” Lydia said.

“Last time, I rushed into things at every turn. I followed orders, didn’t think. I’ve seen how that turns out. This time, I’m not taking any orders. I am a Hero. Causality bends around my whim. That means that I can decide when events happen, especially the ones that have a big impact on history. I can make sure Skyrim is stronger this time. Alduin will not further his plans until I choose to go after him, but the moment I do, he will _always_ have continued his plans. I’m going to take my time. I’m going to travel around, take some small mercenary jobs along the way, and tackle the larger issues at my leisure. I _will_ fulfill my destiny, but this time it will happen on _my_ initiative, and no one else’s.”

“So what will you do next?” Lucia asked. “Will you adopt me and...”

“Sofie.”

“…Sofie again?”

Tyr nodded. “Yes, but I can’t do that just yet. For one thing, the house isn’t built yet, and for another I wouldn’t be around much. I’ll leave you a bunch of money and you can stay in Breezehome if you want to, but I can’t officially adopt you for some time yet.”

Lucia considered that for a moment. “That’s okay. I think I can manage on my own for a while longer.”

“And me? I couldn’t help but notice I didn’t feature much in your previous life,” Lydia said.

Tyr shot her an apologetic look. “I never traveled with companions last time if I could help it. I’ve always worked alone. This time, though, I promise I won’t leave you behind. But are you sure you want to come with me? This trip is going to be far different from anything else’s you’ve ever done, and there’s a very good chance you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Lydia shrugged. “I know how to fight. And I’m still not sure if I believe the whole ‘breaking causality’ thing. I’m coming with you.”

Tyr grinned. A weight had fallen away from his chest now that he’d told Lucia and Lydia everything.

“So where will you go first?” Lucia asked.

“Ivarstead. I want to talk to the Greybeards so I can explain the situation to them as well.”

He looked at Lydia. Even though her steel armor had fur lining, her arms were bare. Come to think of it, his own armor wasn’t exactly suitable for the colder climes of Skyrim either.

“But for the time being, I think we’ll make a trip around Whiterun. We need better gear if we’re heading into the cold, so we’ll need to go bandit hunting and shopping for material.”

He winked at Lydia.

“Welcome in the glorious world of the Dragonborn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that whole story is my justification for all of this. Far-fetched? Yep. But somehow, I feel that it fits with the whole canonical Hero thing and Dragon Breaks. I’m glad Michael Kirkbride is such a mad genius, otherwise I’d have to come up with something even more outrageous. Please let me know your thoughts on all of this, and hope to see you next time.


End file.
